Five Slips
by Utterly Fractured
Summary: Peeta's side of the Hunger Games story chapter by chapter.
1. Chapter 1

I am a heavy sleeper. It's a product of all my mother's yelling. I can and will sleep through most anything, but on Reaping Day I wake up earlier than everyone except my father. It's impossible to sleep in on Reaping Day. This is my brother's last year with his name in the running. I've got two more ahead of me after today. My family will let out a collective sigh of relief when it's all behind us, but it won't really be. Someday I'll have a child and then there won't be a day of peace for me for eighteen years.

My father's busy in the kitchen when I come downstairs. The scent of fresh baking bread is something my nose barely registers anymore. It's like my mother's high pitched voice, something so common I forget to think about it. Today, there's another smell in the kitchen, one that makes my stomach muscles tighten in an embarrassing sort of way. It's the scent of cooking squirrel, which is not too appealing, but to me it means Katniss Everdeen might've been here.

And I missed her.

Without saying a word, my father slides a plate on the table for me. He doesn't mention Reaping Day, but he sits beside me, not eating. He has a way of simply being near you. Words don't come easily for him. When he presses his hand against my shoulder I know there's a world of meaning in it. Sometimes love doesn't need a lot of explaining. It's just something that is, with or without the complication of sentences.

I don't want to eat anything, but I do it anyway. I can't tell him I love him back because words from me would underline the absence of his own. I eat the thin strips of meat because he can't protect me today. He can only make me breakfast. I can only eat it.

There will be other parents all over the Seam doing similar things, little gestures because anything more would be admitting the possibility of a goodbye. I'm from one of the more fortunate families in the Seam. My name is in the lottery no more than is necessary for my age. Five slender slips of paper with neat little hand-writing bear my name: Peeta Mellark. My brother, Keegan, will be entered the full seven times. Katniss Everdeen will be entered twenty times. I've watched her take tesserae every year with a growing knot of anxiety.

I spend the morning in the kitchen with my father and brothers, dusting off my hands on my apron whenever the chimes indicate a customer has walked into the front room. People by the usual things. A town person buys a simple cake. People from the Seam stick with loaves of bread. The day passes slowly and is over in minutes. We close early on Reaping Day.

My family walks to the Reaping together every year. I find myself in a clump of Merchant's children. Somehow the invisible line between the Seam folk and the Merchants is engraved deeply even here. My brother stands beside me, stoic and waiting. My eyes find Katniss in the crowd. She's surrounded by other girls with dark hair, all in a tightly knitted group as if numbers could protect any of us.

"You're going to burn a hole in that girl's head," Keegan mutters beneath his breath.

I shoot him a reproachful look, but make a point of not letting my gaze wander back to Katniss. Instead I find her sister in the crowd as the mayor begins his speech. It's two o'clock. In two years I'll be in Keegan's place, on the verge of being safe from the Hunger Games, unless my name comes out of the drawing before then.

The history of Panem is dry and repetitive. Even the mayor sounds bored with himself. I start to search the crowd, looking at the other faces, stopping only to imagine who will make the horrible trip to the stage. In other districts the crowd sometimes seems to quiver with anticipation, as if the blood baths of the games are true entertainment. I don't think their brutality is completely their fault. They've been encouraged to it. Still, I can't escape the image of parents weeping with pride as their children take the stage voluntarily. There's little that sickens me more.

Effie Trinket moves forward. She's pink from head to toe. She looks like a smear of something toxic on the gray and black landscape behind her. The Seam isn't known for glowing or bright colors. There's very little as out of place as a Capitol person in a District, with the exception of a small, terrified Tribute in the Capitol.

Haymitch Abernathy, the only surviving winner from District 12, gives Effie a hug. He engulfs her in his arms when she can't manage to sidestep him. He is a beige and white blur against all her pink. It makes me think of an eraser, but Effie is no less brightly colored when she finally fights him off. She is, however, distinctly disheveled when she takes over at the microphone.

"Ladies first!"

Despite myself my gaze goes back to Katniss and my mind is a looping change. Not her. Anyone but her.

And it's true. There's no one in the District whose name I want to hear less. In a minute when the boys are up the wish I'll make for myself and for Keegan won't be half as feverent.

My wish is granted and it's not because the name that comes out is Primrose Everdeen, Katniss's sister.

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Disclaimer: Everything is owned by Suzanne Collins. The series is brilliant and her work is exceptional. I adore the series and the characters. The books land high on my recommendation list. 


	2. Chapter 2

I watch as the little girl walks toward the stage with bravery and grace. I've watched Katniss and Primrose together often and wondered where the resemblance was, but it's here now in the way she walks with stiff steps and her chin turned up. The blonde hair and blue eyes are just small outward things. Prim has her sister's backbone, her strength.

"Prim! Prim!"

Katniss doesn't have to shove her way through the crowd; they melt away for her. I know what she's doing before she gets to her sister and I can't breathe. There's a pressure in my chest that's never been there before, like a weight has settled there to stay. I feel it locking into place as Katniss sweeps her little sister behind her, as if they're going to snatch the girl away if she's not fast enough.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" Katniss is breathing heavy and my eyes are locked on her face. Will this be the last time I see her again? The idea makes the pressure increase and then I remember the games are broadcasted, like that's a thing I could ever forget. I'll have to see her die on television because the thing about the games is, no one from District 12 ever wins.

I don't realize I'm stepping forward until Keegan's hand tightens on my shoulder, holding me in place. I want to throw an elbow at him. I only realize I'm breathing just as heavy as Katniss when I see the look on his face. I swallow hard and my fingers fist at my sides. Her name's a loop in my head, flowing through my bloodstream and pounding out in time with my heart. I can't pay attention to any of the other things going on stage, but I can tell Katniss's volunteering has shaken things up more than a bit.

Effie Trinket looks pleased. I've never wanted to hit a woman before, but the need to hurt the Capitol woman rises in me. Maybe I'm more like my mother than I ever thought. I could live with that. I can't live with watching Katniss die.

They're dragging Katniss's sister away even as Prim pleads. The audience has lost the thin sheen of indifference they've worked up over the years. There has to be a certain amount of detachment to stand still and let them take children off to meet death, but that's gone now. Prim's screaming rings out over the square. Every burst of it is a slap. We're all doing this, we're all standing there. I start to step forward again, but Keegan's hand tightens and Effie Trinket is speaking again.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don t want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let s give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" Her voice is almost as piercing as Prim's cries and the inherent wrongness of it all can only be summarized in the perfect silence of the square. Not a single person claps. Something inside me is in the process of breaking apart. Something small and important is curling inward, hurrying to catch up with Katniss on her death march. I'm surprised I can still breathe evenly.

Haymitch drunkenly stumbles to the center of the stage. "Look at her. Look at this one," he hollers, throwing an arm around her. Katniss looks like she wants nothing more than to throw his arm off. "I like her!" He wobbles and manages to stay on his feet strictly by a miracle. "Lots of. . . Spunk." He sways towards the cameras and continues. "More than you!" At first I think he's speaking to the audience and I feel the shame of doing nothing, of just standing here, burning within me - but then he lifts his gaze directly to the camera. "More than you!"

Before he can bury himself any deeper, Haymitch falls off the stage. My eyes go back to Katniss after he tumbles down and for one moment I can see a genuine expression on her face, numbed horror. It disappears almost as quickly as it appeared and I'm not sure I saw it at all.

"What an exciting day," Effie continues, as if Haymitch falling off the stage is part of a pre-planned series of events. "But more excitement to come. It's time for our boy tribute."

I was wrong before, thinking I'd say a plea for Keegan and myself that wouldn't be half as fierce as my plea for Katniss. I've forgotten to think about myself. My eyes are only on Katniss and I don't care if my brother makes a side remark about burning holes in her. I will never have a chance to tell her how I feel. I'll never get a change to really look her in the eyes, something I've mostly avoided all my life because of the silly idea that all my feelings might be so clear they'd be easy to read.

In the moments when Effie is fishing a name out of the jar I wish for one thing. A chance to tell Katniss Everdeen that I love her, that I always have, and I always will.

"Peeta Mellark!"

It is a day for wishes to be filled back handedly.

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Notes: The chapters will be longer from this point forward. I just liked the symmetry of these first two. I'll be asking a friend to beta my writing, but right now I'm solo. If I goof something horribly please let me know in a review. I'll revise the chapters as I go because it'll bother me to know. I have CDO; it's like OCD but the letters are in the RIGHT order.

Disclaimer: Again, all characters belong to Suzanne Collins, who is infinitely more brilliant than I could ever hope to be. I thank her for allowing ffn to host stories and if she should ever change her mind I'd be the first to delete my stories. 


	3. Chapter 3

Hearing my name both shatters a world and steadies me. The future that had once been spread out in front of me like a path is gone. When Effie Trinket pulled my name out I'd veered off that path on to a much shorter, more violent road. I am going where Katniss is going. There is no choice to it at all and that is what steadies me. There is nothing I can do except go forward. Keegan holds onto my shoulder for one second, then another, and we both know he has to let go. I step forward and try to do it with the same bravery of Prim. Keegan's fingers drag on my sleeve and I look over my shoulder at him.

"Stay." It's the only thing I can say. When I turn my face forward the crowd has begun to part to me. I walk towards the stage, towards Katniss, towards certain death. The brief moment of calmness collapses into itself and I force myself to take the steps onto the stage one at a time. My legs feel odd, like the bones have suddenly become something softer than bone. I feel like I'm wobbling and I hope it's only a sensation I feel. I don't want the other contestants to see me with unsteady feet - not that it really matters. I'm from District 12. In terms of the Hunger Games I was born with the words 'easy mark' etched across my forehead. It worries me more that Katniss has those same imaginary words on her head. It's an odd worry considering how much more equipt she is for these games than I am. I think of squirrels with flawless circular wounds as I step toward her.

There is more talking as I stand beside Katniss and I have the compulsion to reach for her hand. We are, after all, sentenced to die together simply for having been born in the Districts. But that's not the nature of the Hunger Games. We're not going to be hung in a televised broadcast or let out in front of firing squad. We have one slim chance of survival. One in twenty-four. For that slim chance we must give up everything else. The only person from home who will be with me in the arena will be my competition. Tributes exist alone. Even the careers, who hunt in packs, must watch their back at every moment. Once your name comes out of the drawing you are property of the Capitol. I will have a numbered amount of days ahead of me. My life is an hourglass and the sand has begun to trickle down a little faster. I worry over Katniss's sand because I can't help it.

The mayor finishes his speech about the Treaty of Treason and gestures me toward Katniss. He means for us to shake hands. In all the years since I first saw her this will be the first time I've come in close, physical contact with her. I get to touch Katniss on the first day of the end of our lives.

Her hands are small and delicate. I can see a faint white scar trailing down the back of the one I hold. My hands seem to swallow hers up. I try to imagine them firing the arrows that end up in all those squirrels. I try to imagine her wielding a weapon with the intention of killing during the Hunger Games. I look her in the eyes. They are the same clear gray you see all over the Seam, but to me they seem a little darker, flecked with more black. I squeeze her hand, trying to say without words that we are in this together. Katniss lets go of my hand.

We face the crowd and the anthem begins to play. I don't look at my family, although I can see Keegan straining to catch my gaze. I don't want to look at him and see a face full of resignation or, worse than that, apology.

When the song stops I have better control of my facial expressions. It happens just in time to be lead off by the Peacekeepers towards the Justice Building. I'm separated from Katniss, but I know it is only temporary. Soon we'll be loaded on to the train, like livestock shipped off for slaughter.

The room I'm left in looks like a red velvet cake with thick white icing. The furniture is plush and deep burgundy. The walls a white patterned paper coating them. I've only seen houses with wallpaper once or twice and I study the pattern for a moment, intricate, swirling flowers in a straight line from ceiling to base board. Are these rooms just for the tributes or do they serve two purposes? I can't think of another reason to have something this beautifully crafted and yet it seems an extravagant waste for something used once a year for barely more than an hour.

The doors open and my family enters. Keegan grips my shoulder in almost the exact same way he had when Katniss volunteered and I know he's struggling to gain control of himself before we're face to face again. I give him his time. He is more like my father than I am. His words come in in small bursts when they come at all. Pressure makes it all the more difficult for him to speak. Caleb, my older brother, stands beside my mother. He's starring at a point somewhere over my shoulder as if eye contact with me might some how damage him. I wonder how I might have reacted if Keegan's name had been called; I don't know how I would've born these long minutes from the other side.

My father's eyes are glazed with tears and I let him tug me into a tight embrace. I try not to think of it as a goodbye and as the physical acts instead. Love is my father making breakfast. Goodbye is a long embrace. Keegan never lets go of my shoulder, but Caleb and my mother stay the step away. I think Caleb is clinging to his indifference, trying to force himself to stay numb. I don't know what to think about my mother, I never have.

"You're not twelve years old," my father says. "You're strong, maybe stronger than some of the careers. You'll be bigger than most of the tributes. There's a chance..."

I meet his eyes and I know he's remembering something specific by the absent look on his face. I can imagine what it is, although I don't know for sure. I think of all the games of tag and hide and go seek I threw to give a smaller kid a break. Even when I was pretty young myself I'd hide in a more obvious spot if someone younger was caught in the position of being "it." I didn't like when the game went on and on because the kid couldn't catch anyone. I open my mouth to tell him I won't throw the game this time and then I think of Katniss. Her face fills my memories and I have to look away from my father. I can't promise to come home.

I only look up again when he's pressing a small wax bag into my hands.

"For the train ride," my father says and then he does something he hasn't done since I was very small myself. He leans forward, pushes my ash blond hair aside, and kisses me on the forehead. I feel six years old again. I feel lost.

My father leaves out the side door, I think to give the others a moment with more privacy. I see him stop to speak to the Peacekeepers as the door swings shut and then Caleb finally steps forward."Dad's right about your size. In a cold environment you'll hold up better than most of the others." He pushes a hand through his own ash blond hair, struggling to say goodbye and choosing instead to push advice at me. I think he can't say goodbye and that these directions are easier. Saying take care is easier than saying goodbye. It sounds less final. "Try to stand your ground at the Cornucopia. You need supplies more than some of the others will." I can tell he's thinking about Katniss.

"I'll do my best," I say in an automatic tone. It's not a lie. I will do my best, with one exception. I try not to think out the exception because I don't want Caleb to see it on my face. He wraps an arm around my shoulders. There are few people broad enough to hug me properly. My brothers and my father make the short list. Caleb doesn't give me a second look when he heads out the door, but he stops just outside as if he's bracing himself. I have now probably seen half my family for the last time. My throat tightens.

My mother steps in front of Keegan even as he opens his mouth. "Maybe District 12 will have a winner this year." Her tone is bright and although her words aren't followed by any soft gesture I look up, feeling surprised. I expected forced optimism from my father. My mother, on the other hand, wasn't one to soothe anyone else. She didn't tell bedtime stories or encourage any other make-believe nonsense. There was no tooth fairy in the Mellark house. Hearing my mother tell me I have a shot at winning the Hunger Games is so strangely out of character I feel like pressing my hand to her forehead to see if she's come down with something.

"She's a survivor, that one," my mother says with a tilt of her head in the direction of the room Katniss was lead into. Her unexpected kindness evaporates into a hard truth, but I am comforted by the truth all the same. My mother thinks Katniss might live. The world might be alright if Katniss lives.

"She is." The words fall slow and stilted from my mouth. This time I imitate my father, the parent I always wanted to be like because really what else was I left to compare with, and kiss my mother lightly on the cheek. "Take care, Mom." And then she's leaving with nothing more than the faint scent of warm bread left behind her. Had I just thought this morning that baking bread was too common for me to notice? I'd probably never smell it again, not lying in bed on a Saturday morning or lingering on my mother and father's clothes. I acknowledge, at least to myself, I'll miss the scent of bread more than my mother.

Keegan's stayed in the same place ever since my mother interrupted him. I look at him properly for the first time. He seems ashen, all the color has drained out of him, and I reach for his arm this time. He slaps my hand away.

"I should've... I shouldn't have stood there. I should've done what she did," Keegan says, finally meeting my eyes.

Katniss committed suicide when she took that stage. She'd spared her sister's life, but she'd as good as thrown herself off a cliff. Volunteering just wasn't something people did in District 12. In some of the other districts, the one with the careers, people clamored to go off to the games. They had to make special rules to volunteer to take the place of a drawn tribute because sometimes there were people literally competing to take the opening. Sacrifices like Katniss's happened sometimes in non-career districts, but those were ones who made better showings than ours. There'd only ever been two winners from District 12 in more than seventy years. We made the worst showings year after year. So calling Katniss's sacrifice suicide was really the only way to put it.

"My life doesn't have more value than yours. I wouldn't have asked for it and I wouldn't have wanted it," I say, but Keegan's still not looking at me. I grab his arm, aware I might get slapped away again. He meets my eyes. "I wouldn't have wanted you to do it. I'm not twelve. I've got the same shot you would've had. You did nothing wrong."

His face crumples a little and then he's got me in an embrace that contends with our father's for fierceness. He holds on until the Peacekeepers come in and tell him his time is up. When he lets go my face is just as tear streaked as his own. My father's grief hadn't broken me, nor had my mother's indifference, but my brother's regret ebbed away at the calm I'd been trying to hold onto.

I stand in the room alone for several minutes struggling for composure. I don't want anyone else to come in and no one does. I have friends in the village. I'm more or less popular, but they are mostly boys my age. They're merchants' children who all have the same five slips in the drawing. They are just like me and they are not because I've been sentenced to death and they've gotten a year long pass. It's unlikely another merchant child will have his or her name drawn for a few years. We don't take the offer for more food in exchange for more slips. My name coming out is against the odds, but I'll be used as an example for the next few years that the games are fair, that the odds are the same. Refusing tesserae does not keep you safe.

The load me into a car. It's not entirely unfamiliar. I've been inside the trucks that deliver the heavy bags of flour and supplies to the bakery. I won't ever be inside the bakery again. My stomach pitches violently as the thought occurs.

Katniss face is set in stone. There's no emotion and I wonder if she refused to say goodbye to her family altogether. I dismiss the idea almost as quickly as I have it. She wouldn't have sent her sister off without a goodbye. Her focus is on the cameras and she's walking with the same stiff dignity with which Prim had tried to take the stage. The best I can do is to ignore the cameras.

The train pulls away from the station amid the flashing of cameras and the steady focus of video. It pulls a speed no delivery truck could have matched and I watch as everything I've known disappears. The gray smudge of the Seam and District 12 is swallowed whole by the green of the forest. I focus on nothing and lean my forehead against the cool pane of glass, just letting the greens and browns blur. Caleb is right about me having better odds in a cold climate game setting, but I can't imagine a night in a forest. I've never been outside the electric fences at night. My reasonable mind knows that the stories of the animals outside the district are greatly exaggerate, but in the games there will be many lethal things - not to mention the other well-armed tributes.

We're shown private rooms on the train, which are somehow more lavish than the little room where I last saw my family. My room is made of various green tones. The bedspread has leaves stitched into it and I wonder if they were done by hand or by a machine. It seems awfully elaborate for someone to do on their own, but I've never seen anything quite so fine. The blankets in our home are simple and some are a little worn. The only thing that might even be loosely compared to this is a knitted blanket that had been passed down along my mother's side of the family for years.

The drawers are filled with clothes. At home my clothing is made of material well above what most of the people in the Seam have. These things put the clothes I have on to shame. I close the drawer, more comfortable in my own things, and unwilling to relinquish the faint scent of baking bread still clinging to my blue linen shirt.

I use the shower and redress in my own things. I don't want to be in this room. It's a cage. As cages go it's a pretty one, but even gilded bars make a cage. I wander the train and Capitol attends are never out of eye sight. I don't bother trying to open one of the windows for fresh air. I could never fit through it, but the way the people from the Capitol are watching me makes me think they think I'd try it. The landscape changes every now and then, open fields, and I wonder if I'll see any of the other districts if I stand here long enough.

The door at the end of the compartment opens and Haymitch stumbles in, although stumble is a generous word. The man simply staggers. I don't have a lot of interaction with him, but I try to remember if I've ever seen him sober. Is today just particularly hard for him, all those old memories of his own ride, or is this his standard drinking pace? It can't be a daily occurrence. He'd have no liver left whatsoever.

I turn to introduce myself because he is, after all, going to be my mentor and only life line, but he stumbles right by and mutters something about finding a bed. The way he says it has a lot more profanities than is actually necessary. I shrug, hoping he doesn't stumble into my room and pass out.

When they summon me for dinner I'm surprised again my the room's design. The walls are so polished my reflection shows in the wood. The plates and trays look sort of dainty, like they weren't meant to be handled on a daily basis. I live and work in a kitchen, or I did before my name came out during the reaping, and I knew these plates were good for nothing more than displaying stuff. The cakes I worked on that rarely if ever sold would have sat on stuff like this.

Effie Trinket leads Katniss into the room. She's traded her dress for something the Capitol gave her. I liked the other one better.

"Where's Haymitch?" Effie asks. It takes an effort to turn my gaze away from Katniss and more of one not to scowl at Effie. She's from the Capitol. She doesn't know any better. These things are really games to her, but in acknowledging that I also have to acknowledge that my life means nothing to her.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I tell her, modifying my conversation with the man slightly. There was no reason to use his more colorful language or share my suspicion that he was passed out cold in a corner somewhere.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," Effie says with false sympathy. I want to ask what part was exhausting for her. She seemed delighted enough to condemn us both to death a few hours ago. There were no emotional goodbyes for her today. She didn't leave her home knowing the chances of her going back were really quite less than one in twenty-four. I turn away before my face can project any of these thoughts.

The meal comes in courses. I've experienced this a few times, on holidays and stuff, but the sheer volume of food is overwhelming. I eat more than I would at home. I might not want the Capitol's clothes, but in a few short days food like this will be a torture to remember. Katniss seems to have no issue with the Capitol's food or their clothes. She digs in like this will be the last time she'll see food and I match her. I'm almost a foot taller than her and a lot heavier, but she's doing a good job of keeping up.

"At least you two have decent manners. The last pair ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages," Effie says in a confiding tone, as if she's letting loose a secret she really ought to keep to herself. "It completely upset my digestion."

I remember the two children from last year. The girl had been fourteen and from the Seam. She'd hardly been bigger than Prim Everdeen and I doubted she'd ever had enough to eat in her life. I couldn't remember the boy as clearly because he'd died on the first day of the games. The only memory I had of him was just an impression, a teenage boy still too slender to be far into puberty or who hadn't eaten enough to fill out. I meet Katniss's eyes, wandering if Effie Trinket had ever involuntarily missed a meal in her life. She eats the rest of her meal with her fingers and wipes her hands on the tablecloth, which hits Effie in the only place that counts. Her digestion.

I want to do the same thing, but I can't eat anything more now that the memories of last year's dead tributes have worked their way into my head. We were all fattened up before the slaughter.

The nausea I feel is only half due to the too rich food. 


End file.
